Lestrade Exerts His Pull
by Tammany Tiger
Summary: This is fluffy, and it's mild, clean, flirty Mystrade. It's also non-erotica: courtship, no more. I'm rating it T kind of out of pessimism, more than out of anything much happening that is likely to scare the horses...unless you've got fairly tetchy horses. So. Greg. Mycroft. Flirting occurs. Greg's having a terribly good time quite intentionally fishing for Mycroft.


Just a fluffy little scene. It's fun playing out different scenarios for how two characters might get together. In this one, Greg's quite knowingly on the pull and is having a rather good time luring Mycroft into his trap.

Work Text:

"Whatever do you think you're doing, Lestrade?"

Lestrade leaned back against the concrete pillar of the underground car park, crossed one ankle over the other, and crossed his arms over his chest. He grinned, amused. "Can't deduce it, sunshine?"

He waited, watching Mycroft consider. The man was amusing—prim, slightly scandalized without yet seeming to be sure what was happening. There was something fluttery, and very Madam Librarian about Mycroft. For all his authority, he was at heart a retiring, reserved man who in many ways seemed to have concluded life had already passed him by. A man used to watching from the sidelines, with no expectation that he'd ever actually take part.

That wasn't the only thing about him Lestrade found attractive—but it was perhaps the element that most tempted him to tease the other man. Some part of him wanted to shake Holmes out of that deep reserve, rattle his cage just a bit. Lure him into a dance of emotion and desire, as well as intellect and duty.

"You're being ridiculously enigmatic," Holmes said, with wary dismay. He rapped his umbrella sharply on the concrete, and scowled. "Business, Lestrade. We've serious matters to deal with."

Yes, Lestrade thought, enjoying the victory. The policy of tease and ruffle feathers was working, if Mycroft had lost track of the fact that they'd actually got the primary business out of the way ten minutes ago, and had been frittering through minor reports and evaluations when Lestrade had suggested they finish their meeting over dinner at a nearby old-style chop house. Mycroft had huffed and said, "Don't be foolish."

Lestrade had commented that it seemed silly going to all this trouble rendezvousing like an adulterous couple without enjoying some of the benefits, all things considered. "Come on, Holmes, a dinner date as sweetener would be a good start."

"Start?" Mycroft's brows had gone down, and the Madam Librarian look of shocked affront had made its appearance.

"Yeah," Lestrade had said, smiling the smile that most often seemed to work when he was out pulling. "Start. After that, I'm open to suggestion."

Which had led to their current situation—Mycroft standing so straight he shamed a street light, and Lestrade just beginning to get into the game. "We can deal with the business over wine and steak," he said, still leaning lazily against the column. "Roebuck's is affordable, they have a good menu—and they're warm. I don't know about you, but I'd be happy to finish the evening up someplace warm with good company." God, it was fun shifting from sober business demeanor to scamp—enjoying being a bit of a lad. He wondered why he'd never tried it with Mycroft before, just to see what happened.

What happened was enough to make a cat laugh. Mycroft fluffed and clucked like a scandalized hen, raised his chin, and snipped, "If you can't be serious I see no reason to continue this discussion." He hooked his umbrella over his elbow and wheeled toward the car parked yards away, waiting to drive him away from this site. He only walked a few steps, though, before swerving back to stare at Lestrade, bewildered. "Really. What are you doing?" The note of uncertainty was the sound of the plain teen who expects to be mocked.

Which was another reason Lestrade found himself doing this. It had taken him years to realize that behind Holmes' cold manner, hidden away inside those perfect tailored suits, defended rigorously by the prim, umbrelliferous demeanor, was that plain young man, worried and insecure. Lestrade knew himself—he loved discarded treasures, and he adored being valued for what he could give. Whether it was loony Sherlock, all brains and tantrums and vulnerability, or John Watson, a damaged healer in need of a friend, or even poor Anderson, hungry for a listening ear for whatever his latest mad obsessive theory was, Lestrade liked being needed. Or at least, wanted. Valued.

He softened his smile, without erasing it, and pushed off from the column, walking easily over to the taller man. He cocked his head, and said, "I'm chatting you up, you silly berk. Trying to get you out for dinner. And if you're interested—well. I'm open to negotiation, like I said." He hooked a finger around the bottom of the umbrella handle, and tugged softly—just enough to register as a pull, not enough to come across as force. "Come on. It's easy: go out. Order dinner. Drink wine. Talk. Come out a few hours later feeling good, with a bit of a chum, yeah?"

"We have a perfectly good professional relationship," Mycroft sniffed. "Why would I put that at risk for an overdone beefsteak and a bottle of house wine?"

"Because you want to," Lestrade said, quietly, not letting it be a question at all. He met Mycroft's eyes, then. "Only reason to bother—if you want to."

"And that's why you're asking," Mycroft scoffed, looking away, disdainfully.

Lestrade tugged the umbrella again, still so lightly as to be almost undiscernible. Almost… "Yeah."

Mycroft's head jerked around, and he stared. "Because you want to?" He sounded almost horrified in his disbelief. "Don't be ridiculous! I'm not an idiot."

"Yeah, you are," Lestrade said, chuckling. "Come on, mate: Occam's Razor. You tell me—why am I asking you to go out to dinner?"

Mycroft licked his lips, nervously. "Currying favor?"

"With this kind of reaction from you? I'd do better sending you a ten page report listing previously unidentified terror cells."

"You'd have to actually find the cells," Mycroft pointed out, voice dry and brows flying—but the first trace of humor beginning to show in his eyes. "I'd hardly be impressed with less than sound leads, after all."

"A mere bagatelle," Lestrade grinned, playing to that shimmer of amusement in Mycroft's eyes. "I bet if I badgered Sherlock long enough, he'd find them just to get me out of Baker Street."

"Not since the little doctor got married," Mycroft said, pensively. "He might well lock you up in John's old room, for lack of a household pet."

"I'd bark at the mailman and bite the landlady," Lestrade said, grinning, and counted another victory point when Mycroft gave a sudden chuff of laughter. "Sherlock wouldn't want me." He risked another dimpled, laddish grin. "I'm only for those with discerning tastes. Speaking of which—hungry. Dinner?"

Mycroft shook his head in dismay. "You're quite persistent."

"How long have I been an undercover agent?"

Mycroft frowned harder, confused by the swing in topic. "Over ten years."

"So 'persistent' is pretty much established."

The fleeting cock of the head, roll of the eyes, and amused grin ceded the point. "Point taken."

"Then…dinner?"

Mycroft snorted, and primped his mouth. "Very well. I'll concede, it's a seductive offer."

Lestrade smiled, then, slowly, and let both laughter and desire settle in his gaze. He let one finger find the bare skin just past Mycroft's jacket sleeve. "Only if you want it to be," he said—then, before Mycroft could react, he spun and sauntered away, calling back "Meet you there, sunshine!"

He chuckled all the way to the chop house. By his reckoning, if Mycroft was there, Lestrade could at least count him as intrigued. If he wasn't there, well—it was a clean enough exit to give him chances at Madam Librarian again.

Not that it mattered. Mycroft was there, and as Lestrade approached he could see in the younger man's eyes the brooding fascination of a man entranced.


End file.
